


you studied words written long before our time

by inkwelled



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Aftermath, Canon Compliant, F/M, Introspection, Minor Spoilers for The Last Battle, Post-War, Unknowingly Falling In Love, writing letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 09:09:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14040915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: Prince Caspian takes a shuddering, frail breath and plunges himself back into the fray. Narnia needs a King and he can’t waste time lamenting and mourning something he never had.The quiver collects dust.





	you studied words written long before our time

**Author's Note:**

> title from [the compass still holds us on opposite sides](https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1573252/the-compass-still-holds-us-on-opposite-sides-part-of-the-inspiration-series/) by charlotte schierloh

He doesn’t miss her because he _can’t_. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to miss her, doesn’t want to remember her flashing eyes as she drew her bow against him for the first time, her arms around his body when they galloped through the forest and the way her hands felt against his face, pulling him into the kiss that left him weaker than any injury. 

It’s that he _can’t_. 

After the defeat of Miraz and the Telmarines, Narnia and its people need him more than ever. Aslan tells him they need a leader, someone to trust that they can look toward in times of strife and laughter. 

For how are they to seek him out if he’s holed up in a castle that isn’t his, mourning something that could never happen? 

So Prince Caspian throws open the doors to a castle that’s held nothing but treachery and strife for years and years, walls saturated with hatred and lets the light stream in. The maids and him rip down the heavy curtains, dispose of the dark fabrics that suffocate the air around them. 

People pour into the castle, laughing and dancing, and he joins in. He dances with the young and with the old, the men and the women and the children, and ignores the beating of his heart like a drum, like a gunshot, whenever he sees dark hair. 

 

 

 

 

He begins to rebuild the kingdom his father once so dearly loved. 

On the surface, the kingdom only needs wood and brick and mortar, only things that will help those who lost their homes. But beneath it all, beneath the rubble, he finds that the kingdom needs more than just provisions to rebuild their lives. 

For years, he’s lived within the walls of the castle, studying to become king one day, and throughout it all, he’s neglected to do his one duty that a king must do; care for his people. 

More than just half of the population is fatherless children, widowed mothers, old women and men whose ribs can be seen through the thin cotton that hands off their shoulders. Beneath the surface, he finds that while Miraz was technically a leader and a warrior, he was no King. 

A King’s first duty is to his people, Doctor Cornelius tells him during their weekly walks through the gardens that have begun to come back to life in the fresh air and sunlight. His teacher is hunched over, beard growing longer, and the playful spark in his eyes is growing both dimmer and brighter. 

Seems the towns people weren’t the only ones affected by Miraz. 

But Doctor Cornelius waves off his concerns through a fitful coughing spell and continues on through the garden even when he himself is called away to continue his gradual transition into becoming the rightful ruler of the House of Caspian. 

That night, he falls into a bed once pierced by arrows and snuffed with feathers and doesn’t notice the bow and arrows nestled on top of the trunk at the foot of the bed. 

In the light of day, however, as he dresses, he spots the quiver. 

The ache in his heart as he remembers the freckles on her face, so close to his and her lips against his own is nothing compared to the hollow in his chest when the door clicks shut behind him. 

Prince Caspian takes a shuddering, frail breath and plunges himself back into the fray. Narnia needs a King and he can’t waste time lamenting and mourning something he never had. 

The quiver collects dust.

 

 

 

 

The skin under his eyes grows heavy. 

At night, the world is different. He may have broken down the walls between the castle and the town, torn the darkness from the bricks one by one, but during the nighttime, it is different. He tosses and turns in bed, imagining the sharp _twang_ of arrows in his bedroom and more than once finds himself reaching for the horn at the end of the bed. 

His fingers brush it one night, the closest he’s ever been to touching any of her things, and he jerks back. 

He will not entertain a fantasy.

 

 

  

 

“It does not do well to dwell on dreams,” Aslan says quietly as they walk the once-dark halls of the House of Caspian. He turns to look at the lion but Aslan doesn’t look back, continues on his way long after Caspian has stopped. 

He watches The Great Lion stop at the end of the corridor, look back once at him and nods. He nods back, dropping into a slight bow and when he straightens, Aslan is gone. 

A guard later tells him that the Great Lion was spotted at the large tree on the borders of the kingdom. 

 

 

 

 

When they first hear of the Green Mist, on a rainy afternoon where all he wants to is disappear from the throne room and hole up like he used to with a book, the first thing he does is call for Lord Drinian. 

Lord Drinian is the captain of the sea-faring vessels that are sent out all over Narnia for trade and news, and he is summoned quickly and quietly, hoping not to cause panic. For what would the towns people think if the elusive Admiral were to be spotted heading to summons with their Prince - no, he cannot induce rumors and panic. 

In hushed tones, they listen to those coming from far islands, people with sand in their boots and salt in their hair, lines carved into their foreheads with concern. They hear of the Mist, of the Isles that have fallen to it and the never-ending hunger it seems to possess. 

By nightfall, they have their answer. 

King Caspian leaves Cornelius to rule, to decide the best for the people for he knows his professor will do the best he can. He packs, quietly, and avoids the bone-carved quiver. 

He sighs once, twice. The Dawn Treader will cast off soon, and everything is ready. Peter’s sword, Edmund’s torch and Lucy’s dagger have already found their way into his pack. The door clicks shut behind him and the room is empty, save for an outline of dust where a quiver and bow used to lie.

 

 

 

 

It’s the first thing on top of his pack when the ship has sailed and he’s in his quarters, laying out the maps. 

Drinian doesn’t say a word when he spies the familiar bow and quiver of High Queen Susan the Gentle on the wall while the rest of the artifacts of the Pensive rules stay behind glass. 

He’s heard the tale of the once-Prince Caspian and Queen Susan - or the lack of one. He’s heard it between townspeople, clucking their tongues at the two royals who danced around each other for so long in circles that it was too late when they came to a halt. He’s heard it whispered from guard to guard, rumors of more and at the King’s professor, lowering his head. 

He wasn’t there during the final moments High King Peter and High Queen Susan were in their world, but he knows what happened right before they returned to their own through the tree that lays at the edge of their kingdom. He knows of the goodbyes, of the embraces and tears and the single kiss, but none as clear to day as King Caspian’s. 

Crew members ask him of Caspian, wondering if the rumors of him keeping the Queen’s bow is true, and he stays silent. Those who ask swab the main deck and are assigned to the task none others want. 

The whispers stop. 

 

 

 

 

When the lookout cries there’s people in the water, he’s the first at the stern, first to dive in. All he can see is curly dark hair in front of him, matted with water, and he surfaces. 

When Lucy Pevensie asks about a Queen for him, he sees her gaze flit over to the quiver on the wall. All he can do is smile and shake his head, ignoring the spark in his chest that threatens to ignite and burn all the hard work he’s done constructing wall after wall around his bleeding heart. 

When he says her name, it’s a poison on his tongue. It’s been years since he’s said anything out loud about High Queen Susan the Gentle - he supposes that now that Lucy is High Queen, he no longer needs to refer to her sister as that - but the pain is just as fresh. 

 

 

 

 

_Caspian._

The tendrils of mist curl around him, surrounding him and cutting him off from the next man to his right and it’s so thick that he can no longer see the first mate or the captain. Something about the mist turns his stomach - the way it moves and seeks out people - and sets his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

He’d given his - Peter’s - sword to Edmund, and he regrets it for a split second. He knows the weight of that sword, knows the grooves in the lion’s mane on the grip, knows the lives saved with it. 

 _Caspian_. 

He knows that if he turns, listens to the voice, he’ll see Susan. He knows that if he gives into the temptation, he’ll see her again for the first time in years and just the sight of her will be enough to tear him to pieces. 

He sets his jaw, looking resolutely forward. 

In the mist, he’s already seen his father. He’s already seen that look of disappointment, that stern voice he faintly remembers in dreams, and he’s learned his lesson. He will not look again. 

_Caspian._

His fragile heart beats inside his chest. 

 _Caspian._  

Once. 

 _Caspian._  

Twice. 

 _Caspian._  

He looks. 

 

 

 

 

He hugs Lucy, buries his face in her hair and pulls her close. 

_Tell her, please. I can’t._

High Queen Lucy the Valiant nods into his neck, and no more words pass between the two of them. The youngest Pevensie had always been perceptive, wise beyond her years and he sees it in her eyes when she pulls back. 

She’s always known. 

King Caspian watches her disappear through that wave, dark hair gleaming in the sunlight and swallows thickly. He will not remember the last time a Pensive walked away from him, leaving forever, never to return. 

Aslan looks knowingly on. 

There have been times his faith in the Great Lion has wavered - only twice, and now is the second. 

 

 

 

 

The sail home is quiet, punctuated by the waves and the air and the creaking of the wood splintered during the fight. 

King Caspian disappears below deck for more than half the first day, more the next and the next until on the fourth day, when he spends all day in the crow’s nest. 

The crew says nothing.

 

 

 

 

When Lucy calls, she doesn’t weep. 

Her little sister is breathless, tales of sea serpents and green mist and dragons spilling from her lips and throughout it all, she listens. She nods and _mhm_ ’s along to the story, engaged in all the right spots and gasping when she feels she’s been silent for too long. 

She hangs up before Lucy finishes her goodbye’s. 

She sets the phone back in its cradle, looks down at the heavy mahogany desk her books are strewn upon, and allows herself to simply miss her home. And she doesn’t mean England, the air thick with smoke and nerves and the inevitability of a fight. 

No, she misses Narnia. 

She misses the thick woods, clear waters, fresh air. She misses Aslan, the dresses, her quiver. 

 _Is it just Narnia,_ her mind whispers, _or is it something else._

Lucy and Edmund are now barred from Narnia, as is Peter and herself, and she cries for that. She cries for them, for her home, for the letters in the second drawer of this desk that go unwritten and unsealed, undelivered and unread. 

Unsaid. 

Unheard. 

Nowadays, she wears fine-clothed dresses and rich lipsticks, heels that support her weight and curve her spine in a way she’s found is attractive to others. America is much nicer than she imagined, so much different than the war-torn streets of England, and the ink in her pens is thick. 

At night, she sleeps across from Peter and amid his soft snores, admits two things to herself, and two things only, for she cannot bear any more. First, she misses Lucy and Edmund, misses her little sister’s smiles and quiet courage and she misses her little brother’s smirks and loud silence. 

Second, she misses Prince - _King -_ Caspian. 

In this world, Aslan goes by a different name and even now, she finds herself struggling to recognize him by it. As the days fly, she finds herself farther and farther from him and missing what could have been, what might have been. 

Perhaps she’ll spend the rest of her life regretting what she never said, never did. 

She walks with her head held high as she passes lion statues, winking at the men. She applies lipstick in the mirror and ignores her reflection, laughing with her friends. 

She waits.

 

 

 

 

There are too many wooden boxes to count, too many people, and she bows her head. A black veil is clipped in front of her eyes and a handkerchief is damp in her hands, twisting. It is quiet, _too quiet_ , and she wants to scream. 

She’s always hated trains. 

Finally it is her turn, and the dull slapping of her flats echoes around a chamber too big to hold her aching heart. The chapel is large, every sound a gunshot, a sword meeting a sword and a scream, and she hasn’t stepped inside in years.   

She presses a kiss to the last coffin, whispers. 

_Say hello to Caspian for me._

 

She wonders if the stars are the same in Narnia.

**Author's Note:**

> for phoenix, to whom i owe for letting me scream about these two


End file.
